


Thirty Floors

by ZoS



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Drabble, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 16:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17511875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoS/pseuds/ZoS
Summary: Through the hazy fog in your head, you thought,That's Miranda, my boss.And then,That's Miranda.Not your boss, just Miranda. This woman who you'd never seen before--because you'd never looked.





	Thirty Floors

**Author's Note:**

> Don't worry, I'm still going to update Meet the Sachses, but I'm doing a Grace and Frankie rewatch (because I finished the new season the day it came out and now I have to wait a whole ass year for more) and I got to the part where Sol tells Frankie about his and Robert's first kiss and thought, "Hmm. I could work with that."
> 
> Anyway, for those of you who don't watch Grace and Frankie, this fic stands on its own, but do yourselves a favor and watch that masterpiece.

It means nothing.

That's what you'll tell yourself later, at least, when you try to process everything. For now you're busy feeling the silky soft texture of Miranda's lips against yours.

It started out as a normal _Runway_ work day, except in Miami because that's where you'd flown to do the photoshoot for the spring break issue. Miranda rarely ever misses a photoshoot, especially when it's in a foreign state or country, which means that you, as her first assistant, had to accompany her.

And everything went surprisingly, impeccably great. So great, in fact, that Miranda decided to seal the day with a night cap at the hotel bar. Asking you to join her.

Miranda doesn't ask. She demands or gives a vague look, but she doesn't _ask_ anything of anyone. She asked you, though, complete with a question mark at the end of the sentence.

"Would you like to join me at the bar?" Any other time, _if_ such a suggestion had ever come your way, it would have been an imperious "Andrea, join me at the bar." But something has shifted between the two of you tonight, and you're still not exactly sure what that means.

All you know is that one drink turned into two and then three and before you knew it, you were pleasantly buzzed. You don't know if Miranda was in any way affected because she seemed as composed and collected as always. You doubt she ever gets drunk; she's invincible that way.

You followed her to the elevator, only wobbling a little, trying to keep your words sharp and intelligible. Then, when the doors opened, you remained rooted to your spot, allowing Miranda the privacy she prefers. Until she made a jerking motion with her head, glancing at the empty spot beside her.

And then you were alone in an elevator with Miranda Priestly, for the first time ever. You watched the floor numbers go by--1... 2...--and though your tipsy mind begged your mouth to let it speak, you locked your lips because Miranda hates small talk almost as much as she hates mustard yellow and you didn't want to ruin this precious, impossible moment.

3... 4...

Miranda turned in your direction, her movement smooth and seamless. You looked at her. And she gave you this look. This look that you couldn't comprehend but that also made everything clearer than ever before, as if all the months you'd known each other had been leading up to this, this very moment.

It scared you. You'd never seen that kind of look on her face before--some combination of hunger and desperation and yearning. You felt like a caged animal, longing to break free and claim its prize, and through the hazy fog in your head, you thought, _That's Miranda, my boss._

And then, _That's Miranda._ Not your boss, just Miranda. This woman who you'd never seen before--because you'd never looked.

And all you had was this need, this feeling, engulfing your body and consuming you whole. Your hands tingled, your stomach flipped, your insides burned.

5... 6...

Miranda looked at your lips and licked hers. And that was it.

You're kissing. You're not sure whether you leaned in or she did, or if it was mutual, but that doesn't matter anymore because now her lips are caressing yours in this delicate, hypnotizing rhythm and nothing else exists. You don't know how many floors you have left and if somebody will be on the other side of the doors when they open and you don't care.

Because Miranda places her hand on your lower back--even through two layers of clothing, the touch scortches your skin--and pulls you close. You stumble a little, but then the kiss is more demanding, more thorough, and her breasts press against yours, and you've never felt like this before. It feels like liquid fire streams through your veins, eviscerating every cell into nothingness. You don't even feel real anymore.

You've never kissed a woman before, but you doubt any other person on this earth could have this kind of effect on you. There is only one Miranda Priestly, and she's currently controlling you like a god, playing your body, mind, and soul with her lips and hands until you lose all sense of time and space.

When you feel a wet intrusion between your lips, you return to yourself just enough to register the different sensation, but then her tongue is in your mouth and your brain short-circuits entirely.

It's warm and soft--softer than her lips--and it immediately takes charge, so you decide to give yourself over fully, melting into the embrace and trusting her to catch you.

She does. She holds you close and explores your mouth and every part of you comes alive. You can feel your blood pumping in your veins and hear your heartbeat in your ears. And you can feel hers, thumping against your chest, matching your rhythm, until it's as if you're just one body.

You don't know how long she's been kissing you, possessing you, until you hear the _ding_ of the elevator, which you've forgotten you were in, and she leaves your mouth, making you feel hollow and bereft.

You look up at the number 30--big, bright, and mocking--and when you turn back to Miranda, she looks like herself again, free of her self-cast spell, and she strides out of the elevator with sure steps.

You touch your lips, wondering if you imagined the whole thing, but they're still tingly and your tongue is numb and all you can smell is her intoxicating scent.

She's going to her suite and you'll go to your room and won't take a shower because you want to keep smelling her.

And tomorrow morning, she most likely will not let you share her elevator and most likely will not kiss you again and the two of you will most likely not talk about this night.

You'll be left wondering, trying to relive the touch of her lips and the feeling it stirred in your body, waiting for the next time.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm one of the few who actually like second person POV and I refuse to apologize.


End file.
